South America

Jackie Steves is guest-hosting her Dad’s blog with 17 posts in 17 days. Follow the adventures of Andy and Jackie Steves as they ‘ the first Steves to venture into South America ‘ report on their experience.

We were five and six of six packed into a five-person car when we got picked up from our hostel the next morning. One was the driver, a middle-aged man with kind eyes. Two was a soft-spoken Asian-American from San Diego. Three and four were lively, talkative, 19-year-old British girls. Soon they revealed themselves to be the crazy hooligans they were. One of them mentioned getting a split lip when she instigated a fight with a cab driver she disagreed with. She proceeded to break off his windshield to whack him with it, and while her friends wrestled with him, she went to grab the key from the ignition. The driver surrendered the argument. One of their other stories showed another reason they weren’t to be messed with: When a few guys pissed them and their friends off, they got them kicked out of the hostel. Then they called around to other hostels so the guys were barred from most places in the city and had to sleep on the street.

Without asking the driver, one of them turned on the radio to blasting volume. At a rest stop they immediately started chain-smoking and drinking beers. It was only noon. One of them wore high heels, Daisy Duke jean shorts, an absurd wide-brimmed sun hat, and a tank top hanging so low her nipple peeked out on occasion. They had Andy and I nonstop laughing as they talked about their travels and their schemes on how to swindle money from their parents to extend their trips. They provided entertainment the rest of the car ride, singing and dancing along to popular music. I almost envied them with the insane stories they told so casually like it was nothing. While they both looked like they could use a good shampoo, teeth cleaning, and facial, they certainly had style with panache.

We transferred to a boat to be ferried over to Ilha Grande, pure underdeveloped paradise. Yellow-sand beaches, rustic Pirates-of-the-Caribbean ambience, people lazing away in hammocks, a harbor speckled with small weathered sailboats, absolutely no cars, and nothing more than a dirt trail stringing the town together. It didn’t bother us that our six-bed dorm room was dingy and crammed because maximum time would be spent in the sun.

Do you see what I am saying? Enlarge photo

Andy and I followed the dirt path and the sandy shore into town. Restaurant owners were wheeling their food supplies back with them from the small grocery. It was the kind of small town where nightlife was going out on a stroll and bumping into all your friends. We had our own happy hour with French fries and caipirinhas, the typical cocktail of Brazil, consisting of a rum-like liquor, sugar, and lots of lime.

Andy remarked, “This is where I would honeymoon.” I seconded that. It surprised us that big developers had not yet commercialized and overdeveloped this haven. We were grateful its more natural, virgin magic was protected and intact.

Our dinner was all-you-can-eat Brazilian barbeque back at the hostel’s restaurant. The hostel’s youthful employees sang behind the bar while they cut bread, sliced tomatoes, and grilled chicken.

The hotel’s surroundings again had that rusty, jungley Pirates-of-the-Caribbean feel. So did one of the male employees, who looked like he could be straight out of the movie with a big, crooked smile, nearly black skin, long messy dreads, and a rum-drunk laugh.

We all sat at long wooden tables with chill Jack Johnson playing over the speakers. I met a sweet Swedish girl who met her Aussie boyfriend on the road a month ago and had been traveling with him ever since. We met a British Tweedledee, Ian, and his Italian Tweedledumb, Paolo, whose grins and jokes kept us laughing all through dinner.

Not long after the people had cleaned their plates of food, we all started making our way to the dance floor. Jack Johnson was replaced by the rave techno music they love so much down here. Some local Brazilians drifted in. Dance dynamics turned crazy so that even the shier backpackers broke out of their shells. Dance-offs and this one Brazilian goofball swinging from the ceiling beams all made for a wild, fun dance party.

Jackie Steves is guest-hosting her Dad’s blog with 17 posts in 17 days. Follow the adventures of Andy and Jackie Steves as they ‘ the first Steves to venture into South America ‘ report on their experience.

The next day at mid-afternoon, we touched down in Rio de Janeiro. Our previously arranged ride having fallen through, we were on our own to find our way to our hostel.

So many people ‘ uncles, family friends, other backpackers ‘ had warned us about this city’s dangers. In just the past two weeks, I had encountered three or four backpackers whose stay in Rio had been tainted by getting mugged. We heard stories of little gang kids attacking people with knives. We had also watched the film City of God with our mother just before our trip, which served to really freak her out. We tried to reassure her that we would be safe, but would we? There is no denying that that film was based on a true story. So there was the bad and the ugly, but there was also the good and the beautiful. I had heard people sing this city’s praises more than any other city. I read “Rio” by Ruy Castro, one of Rio’s most famous author’s; the book was an illustration of his enormous love for his city.

Seeing that ATMs come with six guards armed with large guns, we could tell this city required a strong police presence.

During our bus ride to Copacabana, the area where our hostel was, we saw countless favelas (Rio’s slums), the most tenuous-looking constructions made of cheap materials stacked high on top of each other, a faded rainbow of colors, laundry hanging everywhere, and dirt roads despite an urban setting. Andy caught a glimpse of blood streaming out from beneath a tarp covering a dead body. We couldn’t tell if it was from a car crash or perhaps gunshot? That freaked us out, and as soon as it was finally our stop we hastily hopped into a taxi. After the first two cab drivers we tried didn’t know where the address of our hostel was, we grew even more anxious. We felt like at any moment, a gang of children would attack us with knives and mug us. With hindsight, it’s amusing at how paranoid we were that first night.

While walking back from dinner later that night, I saw a large woman shirtless, breastfeeding her baby on the sidewalk. We also saw a few other homeless people, but the area didn’t feel too dangerous altogether.

Jackie Steves is guest-hosting her Dad’s blog with 17 posts in 17 days. Follow the adventures of Andy and Jackie Steves as they ‘ the first Steves to venture into South America ‘ report on their experience.

After a hearty lunch of pesto tagliatelle and French fries (both could actually be considered Argentinean foods because of its history of fluxes of immigrants from both places), we visited MALBA, the Museum of Latin American Art of Buenos Aires. Waiting in the long line to get in was worth it to see the museum’s small but delightful exhibit. A substantial number of photographs by Mapplethorpe, one of my favorites, struck my fancy.

We explored Calle Florida, which felt like the Champs-Elysées of Buenos Aires, packed with pedestrians and high-class shops. We entered Galerías Pacífico, a fancy mall to get to Centro Cultural Borges for three floors of photography exhibits.

On our long walk back across downtown we were surprised NOT to witness a crash, as rush hour traffic here is crazy! They have especially wide avenidas, and during certain times of day, gridlock is so bad that only a couple of cars can squeeze through at each green light.

We went to a classy steakhouse (not all-you-can-eat) to commemorate our final night in Buenos Aires with Nicole. We ordered just two steaks between the three of us, which turned out to be huge slabs of perfectly seared beef on wooden boards framed by 10 “sides” ‘ ramekins of, for instance, sundried tomato or mustard sauce.

As a flexitarian for environmental reasons, my guilt over contributing to deforestation and greenhouse gas emissions by creating more demand for cow products was overshadowed by how much I enjoyed this blissful Argentinean beef. Steak, wine, and warm chocolate cake made this one big aphrodisiac/endorphin-producing meal, and it showed on our faces.

The cold rain here and Nicole’s hype about Rio made us so excited for our next destination, a sunny city of beautiful people who really know how to embrace the sweet life.

Jackie Steves is guest-hosting her Dad’s blog with 17 posts in 17 days. Follow the adventures of Andy and Jackie Steves as they — the first Steves to venture into South America — report on their experience.

We woke early, hoping to score tickets for the 9:30 boat with Nicole to Colonia, a three-hour boat ride away over the border in neighboring Uruguay. Our luck pulled through and got us on without reservations.

Colonia was extraordinarily romantic, with colonial architecture, grand old trees, sailboat/lighthouse ambience, classic old cars, and rickety cobblestone roads.

When we read about the option of renting golf carts to tour the town we just couldn’t resist. The contrast between the quiet old-time quaint alleys and our obnoxious, modern, stupid-looking golf carts couldn’t have been more jarring. We felt guilty for our nuisance of a presence, but it was so fun zipping through town in our absurd little ride.

We selected a restaurant for lunch based on popularity. Our restaurant was nearly ocean-view and nearly full. The sea breeze made us freezing so we jockeyed for a table in the sun. Andy was severely bothered by three mangy dogs, who patrolled at knee-level. It made the long hour we waited for our food seem like eternity. We had difficulty deciphering the menu, so what we ordered turned out to be pure protein. We ordered some additional sides but gave up when it seemed to be taking another whole hour. At this rate, we would have to get back on the boat before we even got to see Colonia! Our lunch cost $25 each — by far our priciest meal so far.

We climbed back into our golf cart and drove around the city center. I wondered if they had laws here requiring citizens to maintain the rustic colonial charm because its ambience was truly a blast from the past: rusty old classic cars parked along the sidewalks, cracks on the buildings like wrinkles of old age, elderly trees hunched over, and barely much modern traffic at all.

As we merged onto the main street, a scruffy medium-sized dog began chasing after the front of our golf cart. We tried to lose him to no avail, and pretty soon his persistence made us concerned. He barked and stared at us with wild eyes. We all started freaking out over this dog that may be mad with rabies and might bite us! None of us had bothered with the rabies vaccine. For the next 20 minutes we tried every strategy we could think of: sharp turns, slower, faster, joining other traffic, turning onto quieter side streets. We finally got a bit of a lead on him, hastily parked the cart, and ran into a bookstore. The men inside were alarmed at our running in all of the sudden. We explained to them in a Spanish/Italian/French/English hybrid about our chasing dog. We pointed at the dog, who waited just for us outside the door. They laughed and said it happens to lots of tourists and never the locals. The dogs somehow know how to distinguish the two. They said we shouldn’t worry about it and to pay him no mind. It seemed like these dogs were like the town’s practical joke on visitors. Still pretty riled up I wasn’t having the easiest time at seeing the amusement in keeping these scary, bothersome dogs around.

The dog was now napping just outside. We hatched a plan to walk calmly and quietly out. Thank goodness we escaped the dog while he slumbered.

We visited a nondescript church. We were not very inspired to seek out either of the small historical museums here, so we just ventured around on foot in the cold until we couldn’t feel our fingers and toes. We warmed up over a couple of Irish coffees at a bar.

We thought it silly that this small town with generously wide streets had designated several of them as one way streets. Andy accidentally went down one of them the wrong way and then we heard a little woowoo horn — we were being pulled over. When I saw it was two full-grown men in no uniform except bright orange vests, sharing a single motorcycle, it was hard to take them seriously. We bit our tongues to keep from laughing while playing the dumb tourist card and then profusely apologizing. They could have demanded any fine they wanted from us naive tourists and pocketed it. Instead, they showed mercy and we got off with a warning.

Apparently it was our lucky day, for we escaped from Uruguay back to Buenos Aires without contracting hypothermia (despite the biting cold and lack of warm clothing) or rabies via dog bites, and scot-free from paying for Andy’s driving infraction.

Jackie Steves is guest-hosting her Dad’s blog with 17 posts in 17 days. Follow the adventures of Andy and Jackie Steves as they — the first Steves to venture into South America — report on their experience.

Nicole, four British girls, Andy, and I were picked up and transported to a small dance studio for a short lesson. In a dance style with strict gender roles, it was necessary that our teacher instruct both genders once at a time.

The girl takes one step toward the guy, the guy one step back. Both take one to the side. The guy two steps forward, the girl two steps back. Another one to the side. Then the guy leads the girl from side to side as she pivots sensuously on her feet. Then the final pose, with the guy’s leg slid out and the female’s lifted up and curved around the male’s extended leg. We learned this in three sections, practicing after each new addition.

The woman never asks, but is only asked by the males. The instructor shouts “switch partners” frequently so that you’re never with the same partner for long. I wished I had a swanky tango dress and glittering stilettos to complete the transformation into a tango dancer.

The lesson only lasted an hour and then we were all shown into the dining room and served dinner. I swear, people from other countries fall more deeply in love with one another then Americans do. As I look around at couples here on a date, it is a sight I’m unaccustomed to because few Americans look into their lover’s eyes so intently and speak with such loving animation with one another.

I wish I got a picture that better captured the spirit of tango, but this is the only one I got. Enlarge photo

For dessert we were served ice cream, as well as a spellbinding tango performance. It consisted mainly of three dancing couples and a couple of male alto singers. It told the history of tango, which dates back to the late 19th century, through dance. So incredibly sexy! Andy remarked afterward that he was impressed at how all the eyes of the females in the room were absolutely glued to the dancers for the entire show. They moved their legs as fast as a tap dancer, but their movements were instead graceful cursive twirls. The dancers displayed a level of harmony as perfect as a world-renowned choir. I could watch this dance for hours and barely blink an eye, that’s how hooked I was. People say tango is mesmerizing. Now I know what they mean.

Tango seemed a bit sexist in that the man always leads and the woman always follows. On the other hand, however, it is a style of dance that truly showcases the woman. All eyes are on her — her glamorous dress, her glimmering visage, her sultry legs, and her elegant movements. The men all look alike in pinstripe suits, merely acting as pointers to the women, who look powerful in their silver heels and steely assurance.

Afterward, we hopped a cab with Nicole to Palermo, the young hot nightlife district. But it was only midnight, far too early to hit up the club. So we snuggled into a fireplace-warmed pub, the most elegant of pubs I’ve ever been to. Few were the couples. Instead, small groups of friends conversed around small round tables — all so well-dressed! No one seemed to care they were packed in like sardines.

We made friends with a couple who shared our table. “We’re just friends,” she claimed. “He does my hair.” Two minutes later we were left to our own conversation as they French kissed for an extended period of time. “What?” I thought, “They do this in such a graceful bar??” But somehow it seemed to fit. It was totally different from the trashy DFTs (“dance floor makeouts”) you witness in college — just two lovers indulging in each others’ lips.

Before we knew it, it was time to go to the club, the reason why we trekked to this neighborhood. Club 69! Thursday night was drag show night. We paid what felt like an arm and a leg for the cover and coat check compared to the pennies we were paying for other things (in this very affordable city). I watched with amusement as Andy’s eyes grew big at the sight of transvestites strutting their stuff across the stage. We danced, watched, drank, took pics with the drag queens, danced, watched, drank, got tired, and cabbed it home.